"For their own good," I offered, quoting Mr Wood again. Dad put a hand on my shoulder.
"Son, look around. How could living under these conditions be for their own good?"
As we continued on I could see that in the centre was a bathhouse with its two water tanks – a disused small wooden building with a gap of six inches all around at the base of the walls and a dirt floor. It was partitioned into 'men' and 'women'. The windows and doors were freshly boarded up. Close to it was a small timber and corrugated iron shed bolted and padlocked. It looked like it had been a store for provisions. Next to it was an old water pump with a shiny new padlock on it as well.
Nearby was an open-faced shed like structure built of iron and bush timber with an earthen floor that had rows of rough-hewed wooden benches like church pews but without backs to seat about fifty people. At the front was a small wooden table or altar and behind it, attached to one of the poles, a plain wooden cross.
There were a number of separate houses, or single rooms to be more precise, made of bits and pieces of rusted corrugated iron and old metal advertising signs, dotted over the area. They only had three sides and a hessian curtain for the front, and didn't look like they could keep out the cold, let alone any rain. Most had old mattresses on the ground; a few had iron beds as well. Dad came to a stop again.
"I'm sure there were some in government who thought they were doing the right thing," he continued. "But others just wanted to get them out of the way, because they were black, because they looked and behaved differently to the rest of the community. I'd imagine the owners of the new Golden Sea restaurant are doing it tough as well. People not going there, even though they'd like to taste something new, just because they're Chinese."
Dad was passionate but remained calm as he tried to explain it all to us. I looked into his eyes as he spoke. There was sadness behind the passion. It was obvious he had been thinking about some of these things for a long while, maybe even before he went to the War. He'd served in both the European and Pacific campaigns, but never wanted to talk about any of it or march with the others on Anzac Day. He began to smile.
"Someone even started the rumour that they serve cat, just to harm the business. Can you believe people could be so stupid as to believe such rubbish?" I gave Doug an 'I told you so' look.
"I guess it doesn't seem right."
"No Pat, it doesn't. That's why I'm out here now, to try and help these people the only way I can. You see fellas, I took an oath. That means I made a promise when I became a doctor, to help anyone in need of medical help – be they black, white or brindle. Oh there are other Reserves all 'round the country marginally better than this. Ones where they get food and schooling and shelter and doctors visiting and they're looked after a lot better. But not this one. Do either of you think you could live here?"
"No sir," we both freely admitted. He began walking again towards the centre.
"They only got basic food, water and shelter. No vegemite or cream cakes, just things like sugar, flour, tea, salt, barley and a couple of tins of powdered milk. Barely enough to survive. If they've earnt some money they can buy meat from the butcher but they usually get by on meat and fish they've had to hunt for themselves. They were here ages before Captain Cook and the white settlers, roaming all over Australia freely. Then they're virtually told by the white authorities, 'the land inside those fences is the only land you can have. You must stay there.'
"We took the land and gave them our white man's diseases in exchange. Herded in here out of the way like they were some sort of unwanted livestock you wouldn't even waste a bullet on. Just like your American Indians on their Reservations. That was supposed to be for their own good as well. Same with the Jews in the War.
"Saying it's for their own good though boys, is often the way people make themselves feel less guilty about what they are doing to them. Not seeing Aborigines about town lets people like Bob Wood out of any sort of responsibility to care or treat them just like any other human being. Those very same people, who do nothing to help them or turn away, would be the first to kick up a fuss if it happened to them and their families. And now, the government's decided that it doesn't want to run this Reserve and others, any more."
"That's good then, isn't it?" Doug offered.
"They can roam the land again," I put forward.
"But where do they go, boys? First they've had the land, their freedom, everything taken from them, then placed in here. All the good land with watering holes has all pretty much been taken over by white people. And the new owners don't want them squatting on their land. When this place was still up and running, they had to get permission to leave to work the land for the white owners of a day for little money just to eat, when their rations had run out. And they had to be back here by dusk. And now they're abandoned completely. Good enough to fight as brothers beside us in the War, but not good enough to live as brothers with us in peace time."
"That doesn't seem fair."
"No Doug, it doesn't. You wouldn't do it to a dog. And people like Bob Wood and Mr Green don't want them anywhere near town, so where do they go?" Dad came to another stop. "You know, my best mate in the army was an Aborigine. We fought and slept side by side."
"What's his name?" I asked.
"His Aboriginal name was Girra. He said it meant 'creek'. The officers called him Trevor, but he was always Girra to me."
"Was?" Doug and I asked together.
"He died – on the battlefield – in my arms. He was my best friend. And I miss him." Dad's eyes were getting watery, his thoughts drifting to the past. This was the first time he had made any mention of Girra or the War.
"Are Mr Wood and Mr Green bad people?" I asked in an attempt to bring Dad back.
"Not bad son, just ignorant. And ignorance comes from fear. They're scared they might have to share – to live alongside these people. Boys, there's been a lot, lot worse things done to these people over the years, but that's something to learn about when you're older. Come on, history lesson over. They're expecting me," he finished, ruffling my curls with his hand.
We went further to the small circle of humpies and more hessian or canvas curtained iron huts with their basic tree trunk frames, built around the main fire, near the clump of large gum trees.
A group of about thirty or so men, women and children gathered to meet us. All they had on were thin worn out clothes and no shoes. Many seemed listless, apathetic – not moving much at all. One tall old man sitting cross-legged got up and approached Dad. We hid behind Dad's legs and peered out.
The old man's face was like dried, blackened cattle hide. He had a broad flat nose and a beard as long and unrestrained as his mane of coarse white hair. His feet were splayed, the soles thick and weathered and he had large brown eyes. He smiled and shook Dad's hand with his larger strong hand.
"These are my boys, Doug and Pat. Fellas, this is Ganan. 'Ganan', means he's 'from the west'," Dad gestured. "And he's what we call the elder, or chief of his people." It is just like the Indians, I thought. Ganan gave us a big welcoming grin. The whites of his eyes with their red spidery veins stood out against his dark skin. I noticed the milky film of a cataract was beginning to cover his left pupil.
"Fellas, you go off and play with the kids. I've got some food and supplies in the car for you," he told Ganan. Ganan then called out a directive in their language and four men immediately came forward and went with Dad to the car.
Doug and I saw a group of children playing hopscotch in the reddish brown dirt. Another boy had an old busted metal toy truck, moving it along a road he'd drawn with a stick, while two little girls played jacks with some animal bones. They were the only toys we saw. The flies didn't bother us so much, but they seemed to always be around the other children's eyes, noses or mouths. Some had runny noses like Snotty Norris.
"If this is a Reservation, and s'pose they are like Indians, what's to stop them scalping us? Didn't you see the big knife in that rope holding up that old chief's pan
ts?" Doug whispered. I pointed out a pile of spears leaning against a tree.
We ran quickly after Dad and the others, watching our backs in case of an ambush, and feeling I guess that if we were to be killed, at least we'd all die together.
"What if some fur trapper has sold them guns?" Doug puffed. We eventually made it to the relative safety of Dad and the car, but if something did happen we felt we were outnumbered and unarmed.
We all came back as a group, Dad looking a bit annoyed at us for running after him and not playing with the children as we were told. Two of the men set down the large metal drum full of water. It had a little tap attached to the bottom. When the children saw the box of food, they all clustered around it. One woman got two enamelled cups and measured out some of the powdered milk. She filled them to the brim with water from the drum before giving both a good stir. Another lined up the children and as the cups were past down the lines one would take a large two-handed sip, while another shooed away the flies as they drank.
Mrs Symonds' spam and pickle sandwiches were handed out and quickly eaten. Two boys offered us a bite out of theirs but we declined as we'd already had a hot breakfast.
At first we stayed close by Dad, thinking we'd be safer if anything did happen – but not so close as to be a nuisance. After all, we didn't want to ruin our chances of the double feature. As the time past we became more relaxed. One man let us hold one of the spears and touch its stone spear head.
Dad had brought an old tarpaulin which he laid over the small altar in the shed. He used it as a makeshift examination table for the patients to sit on. In front of it he tied off a sheet between two poles to act as a screen for privacy. The people sat in the pews waiting their turn. He started examining the women and children first and then the men. Ganan, on the other side of the sheet partition to Dad, acted as interpreter when Dad asked the patients a question. Dad gave some medicine on a spoon and to others, a tablet or two. Some got medicine and tablets. All received an injection in their arms. The adults comforted the children as Dad gave them all saline eyewashes with their injections. But after each jab the children got to choose a lolly from Dad's bag for being brave. Any tears soon evaporated.
The wind started to come up a bit, swirling the dust about in circles. The last to get checked out were two kids and their mother. Ganan said a few sharp words and they came forward from the back. We'd noticed early on that they played and ate apart from the others, some distance from the main group in front of their little tin shack. These two children, a boy about five and a girl about seven, weren't like the others. Their skin was darker than Dad or Doug's, but not the dark brown almost black of their mother and the rest of the group. The little girl had blue eyes and they both had light brown almost blonde hair. When Dad finished with their examination and the injections, they returned to the front of their house with their mother, to suck on their lollies and play by themselves.
It must have been three hours since we arrived to when Dad packed up. The casserole had been placed at the edge of the fire and the dampers under a cover away from the flies and the weather. Dad made a point of walking through the group before giving one of the larger blankets to the woman and her two children. Behind the curtained front of their shack was a filthy mattress flat on the ground and one worn blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed. The mother seemed a little suspicious and cautious of accepting his gift at first, but took the blanket nevertheless. The other women looked on, none to pleased.
"I'll be back again through the week. I want to see how things are going. Take care, my friend. And remember, only put creek water you've boiled to refill the drum," Dad instructed, shaking Ganan's hand. The old man placed his other hand over Dad's in a tight grip and shook it vigorously.
"Thank you Doctor Harry."
As we made our way back to the car, I turned and looked at the dusty group. It seemed strange. They were all smiling and waving, despite their situation. At the time, I thought that bringing the food seemed to be a good idea, for it stopped them from killing and eating us and using our skin for slingshots.
Driving home, Dad asked us how we felt about what we just saw.
"They weren't like I expected," I stated, a little disappointed.
"What, no bows and arrows and war paint?" Dad replied with a grin. He'd read my mind, again.
"That and, I don't know ... they were friendly and that I guess, but … how come their skin's so dark?" Doug chimed in.
"Everybody's different. Some people are tall, some short, some skinny, and some fat – all different. And some have dark skin, some pale, and others every shade in between. But underneath, we're all the same."
"What about those two lighter kids?" I asked.
"They're called half-castes. Half black, half white."
"Like black and white cows?" I asked.
"No, but I understand your thinking. No, in their case it's where their mother was black and their father was white." Then Doug piped up with a really good question, I thought.
"Well why aren't they living with him in his house?"
"That's very complicated. The upshot is the father doesn't want the kids even though they're his, because he had them out of wedlock and in all probability he's already married to a white woman." Dad noticed we were struggling to understand.
"But if he was already married, isn't he wedlocked?" Doug offered.
"To another woman, not the mother of these two kids. You can't be married to two women at once. And these kids were born to another woman other than his legal wife." Dad tried to explain but our faces showed we weren't comprehending fully. "The woman you're talking about is Ganan's daughter. And as you both saw, they live separately in camp. For some reason, they're not fully accepted by all of the tribe – especially the women. I think its got something to do with the fact she's Ganan's daughter."
"That's not fair," reasoned Doug.
It all seemed very confusing to me at the time. Doug and Dad both had light olive skin that tanned, while mine was white and freckly like Nan's and burnt easily. But no one was mean to us. I sat there thinking for a bit.
"I'm glad we live in a warm house with plenty of food and that. I'm glad we have you Dad," I eventually added.
He patted my leg as he looked across at Doug and me with affection, before going into one of his quiet thinking spells.
"Boys, remember when I talked about taking an oath to help everybody who needs my help?"
"Yeah," we sung in unison.
"Well a long time ago, a very important British religious leader called William Penn once put it something like this: 'I expect to pass through this life but once …'" he paused to remember the exact words. "'If therefore, there be kindness I can show, or any good thing I can do for any fellow being, let me do it now, and not defer or neglect it, as I shall not pass this way again.' Don't you think that's a wonderful way to live your life, being kind and doing good to everybody?"
"It's hard being good all the time," replied Doug. Dad fought off a smile.
"Well I guess as long as we try, eh fellas? As a matter of fact, it was Poppie who first told me that quote years ago." The mention of Poppie's name gave it more importance to us.
"Say it again," asked Doug. Dad did so, slowly and with clarity.
"I agree and that, but if ya don't do anything but spend all your time being kind and good to everyone, how do ya get anything done?" I put forward.
"It's not something you do or think about all the time, its just in the back of your mind so that when something happens, you automatically choose to do good and be kind rather than nasty and 'orrible to people," Dad counselled with a grin.
We continued on home for lunch. Once there Dad took us aside.
"I have to apologise fellas. I shouldn't have called Bob Wood a goose. Like I've told you before, it's not nice to call someone names."
"That's not name callin', you're just statin' facts," called out Nan from the kitchen.
"Mum, please. The sad part is, it's
hard to change people like Bob Wood, boys."
"They're gonna hear a lot worse words than that as they grow up. You protect 'em too much at times. It's time they started learnin' that everythin' in the garden isn't always lovely," Nan emphasised. Dad mulled it over.
"S'pose you're right. Come on fellas let's wash for lunch."
"The sandwiches are fantastic, Nan," I enthused.
"What's got into him? You usually turn yer nose up at brawn."
"After this morning, I think for what they have received, they truly are thankful," Dad summed up.
"That's good, 'cause I'm thinkin' of doin' curried sheep's eyes Sund'y, with tripe sponge for puddin'." Dad and Nan guessed our response and joined us in a collective,
"Urrh."
Chapter Seven
The wait was over. We met Barry and Raymond out the front of the School of Arts for the pictures. All the kids in town and the surrounding districts were there. Sitting with a group of the girls from our class was Penny Farrar, now with a plastic mouthguard to help push back her top teeth. Steve was with his mates and at the back of the hall the older teenage boys and girls sat in pairs. Throughout the audience were various parents keeping an eye out for any shenanigans. Anyone caught throwing boiled lollies at someone's head would be immediately ejected. The ladies of the CWA sold the tickets as well as refreshments, just inside the entrance. Dad sat at the end of our aisle, far enough away so as not to seem like he was babysitting us, in front of our mates.
We all stood and sang God Save The Queen to Gwen Grady's piano accompaniment then took our seats. There was much talking and manoeuvring nervously in our seats in anticipation until the red velvet curtains jerked open and the white screen descended from above the stage as lights faded.
Season of Hate Page 6
